


Shook Me All Night Long

by Patch



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Established Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Fluff and Smut, Galra Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) Has a Praise Kink, Keith (Voltron) Is Quintessense Sensitive, M/M, Married Sheith, Not Season/Series 08 Compliant, POV Keith (Voltron), PWP, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Power Bottom Keith (Voltron), Service Top Shiro, Shiro (Voltron) Has a Praise Kink, Shiro (Voltron) With Slight Galra Characteristics, kind of, slight - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 13:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patch/pseuds/Patch
Summary: In the safety of their ship, carefully shielded, it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t perfect, of course, and the sheer weight of the quintessence outside beat against the wall like it was trying to get in, but it was at a level where he could ignore it. He took his breaks there in between meetings, ate his meals there and napped more than he thinks he’s ever napped before in his life. As long as he got those moments where he could just breathe then he was fine.He wasfine.Shiro’s arms flex around him, and he realises that he’s been muttering out loud.“It’s okay to not be fine.” Shiro sounds tired; soft and worried and recently woken.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 302





	Shook Me All Night Long

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very belated birthday present for Shino and also the first sheith fic I've posted. I'm not even mildly ashamed that its straight up porn.

Keith doesn't remember waking up.

What he does remember was the way Shiro’s arms had come up around him afterwards, the way they’d tightened to the point of pain, not that Keith had cared. Shiro was a solid thing; real. Sometimes Keith needed that.

He needs that now. 

The planet they were on was saturated in quintessence. The natives were blind to it which was probably a blessing; Keith couldn’t imagine living in a place where the very air seemed like it was alive, where every breath felt sharp like he was swallowing down static. The diplomatic meeting was going to be over in two days and Keith was almost tempted to beg off attending. Shiro would let him. In fact he’d probably encourage it, if he didn’t wind up suggesting it first. 

Keith could see the way he got a pinch in his brow every time he looked at Keith and found him shivery- a headache his new night constant companion- when he wasn’t filled with excess energy snapping at his spine.

In the safety of their ship, carefully shielded, it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t perfect, of course, and the sheer weight of the quintessence outside beat against the wall like it was trying to get in, but it was at a level where he could ignore it. He took his breaks there in between meetings, ate his meals there and napped more than he thinks he’s ever napped before in his life. As long as he got those moments where he could just breathe then he was fine.

He was _fine._

Shiro’s arms flex around him, and he realises that he’s been muttering out loud. 

“It’s okay to not be fine.” Shiro sounds tired; soft and worried and recently woken.

Keith hums, hazy. It’s deep in the planets night cycle and he desperately wants to sleep, knows Shiro does too, but he can already feel the faint buzz coming from outside, insistent and pervasive. 

His hum morphs into a discontents growl, and he turns and buries his face in the crook of Shiro’s neck.

“It won't shut up,” he mutters, mulish. 

It was an annoyance now, not a threat, but he can feel the way frustration pricks at his eyes. 

A hand cards through his hair, big and warm, slipping down to apply pressure to the base of his skull and the nape of his neck—trying, Keith knew, to alleviate the uncomfortable pressure that came with being tense from lack of sleep and the headache that came from the quintessence—and Keith lets his breath rush out from him in a hiss and presses his bared and clenched fangs against Shiro’s neck. 

A part of him wants to take him between his teeth and bite but he doesn’t. It’s not the time for it, no matter how much he aches with it. He would hate for Shiro to have to go about his duties the next few days with that kind of pain, no matter how much Shiro would welcome it. 

Shiro’s hand kneads at the back of his neck and this time Keith's breath escapes him in a sigh.

“Don’t feel good,” Keith admits lowly and the hand slows to a stop. Keith whines, plaintive, and the hand squeezes one and then urges him to move. 

Reluctantly, Keith rolls over but he can’t stop his hands from clutching at Shiro’s shoulder, his waist. He winds up on his back, staring up Shiro as he hovers above him, the ambient light from the bunks window setting his hair to starlight.

One of Shiro’s hands drifts up to trace the lines of Keith’s face, the smooth silicone pads of his fingers running in sweeps over his brows, the bruising under his eyes and the bow of his lips. Keith’s eyes flutter shut after a moment and he lays like that for several minutes, letting Shiro touch him as softly as he wishes. It’s good, it’s always good when Shiro touches him but Keith can’t help but shift after a moment, and then again and again, the uncomfortable energy settling in as the need to move.

Keith’s grip on Shiro tightens as the other man shushes him.

“‘M sorry, baby,” Shiro says. At Keith's wordless plea, he scoots closer, lowering his body down carefully until he’s pressing Keith down entirely. Keith could still move him if he wanted too but he doesn’t. “Wish you’d just say fuck it and leave early,” Shiro mutters into his ear and Keith snorts.

“I can’t believe you’d advocating skipping out on meetings,” Keith teases lightly. 

There’s a light nip at his ear. “They don't need us here,” Shiro says into his neck, “Our presence at these things is _helpful,_ not necessary.”

Keith hums noncommittally. That was more true nowadays than not. Things had begun to settle after the war and having the Black Paladin present—having both present was more of a status thing than anything else. 

“I wonder if they know,” Shiro murmurs, low, like he’s worried about being overheard.

“About the quintessence?” Keith questions.

“Yeah,” Shiro sighs. 

Keith says nothing but it wouldn't surprise him too much if they did know and just didn’t care. There had been other instances since the end of the war where his less than human nature had come up in unpleasant circumstances. Galra weren’t anywhere near to universally being universally loved and his being a Paladin and a Blade only got him so much mileage.

Shiro sighs into his neck, nuzzling forward and Keith presses a soft kiss against the side of his head. 

They lie like that for minutes that stretch into an hour. 

Shiro’s breathing goes long and even, just shy of the rhythm of true sleep, and Keith knows that he’s keeping himself from falling asleep until Keith does too. It’s not going to happen though—Keith can feel the way he grows more alert as time passes—achingly tired still but his brain humming with energy that he emphatically does not want. 

It takes another half an hour of counting his breaths and feigning sleep for Keith to be assured that Shiro was actually asleep. He wishes he could just lay there, luxuriating in Shiro’s presence but there’s a tight, hot energy bubbling under his skin that urges him to move.

It takes a long time to work his way out from Shiro’s octopus-like grasp but he manages it eventually, toes curling on the cold metal flooring. He takes his time tucking the edges of the blanket around Shiro’s form, trapping the heat in, and after a few seconds thought he throws a second blanket over him for the weight. He tugs on the closest piece of clothing he can find—one of Shiro’s many jumpers, thick and huge on Keith—and slips out of the bedroom as quietly as he can manage.

He putters about aimlessly for a while; tries reading a book Allura had recommended to him but sitting down long enough to get into it proves impossible. He pokes about the kitchen for a while but cooking anything would make more noise than he’s willing to risk with Shiro still sleeping so eventually he winds up down in the corner of the cargo hold that they had repurposed into a pseudo-gym.

He loses himself to the swing of the punching bag. He stops once to secure his hair better and strip off the jumper before he ruins it with the sweat he can feel beginning to bead at the nape of his neck. The rhythmic thud of his fists against the worn in leather is relaxing, almost peaceful, but he can still feel the heavy push of the quintessence at the edge of his awareness, looming, waiting for the moment he stops and it can come rushing back in. 

So he doesn’t stop. Distantly he knows he’s going to regret it once he finally does, but he keeps throwing punches and the bag keeps swinging, jittering on its chain, like the nervous energy inside him that won't let him sleep.

An hour passes, maybe more, and sweat trickles steady down his back and strands of his hair have come undone from his hair tie. It’s almost enough. 

“Keith?”

The sleep warm voice behind him makes him falter. He slows to a stop, catching the bag on the back swing and steadying it until it’s still before turning to look behind him. Shiro’s standing in the doorway, sweetly sleep rumpled, pillow lines on his face and hair askew. His heart skips in his chest at the sight, familiar and well loved. 

Keith swipes a few of the flyway strands of hair from his face with an aching arm. “Hey, sorry did I wake you?” 

Shiro shakes his head, bare feet padding softly against the flooring. “Got cold without my furnace,” he says, frown deepening the closer he gets. “How long have you been down here?”

“Uhh,” Keith blinks, thinking. Long enough to feel it at least. His arms are heavy, aching with strain and his hands sting. “An hour, maybe two?” he guesses.

Shiro takes Keith's hands in his own, thumbs rubbing gently at the haphazard wrappings and the red that was leaking at the seams. “Oh, Keith,” he chides softly, tugging him away from the bag, the hands on his own gentle. 

Keith goes willingly and then stops, a small sound escaping him and Shiro turns—presumably ready to cajole him—but Keith shakes his head. He pulls away, jogging back to swipe up the sweater, not wanting to just leave it behind. On his way back to Shiro, ever eager, he catches a glimpse of the punching bag and the now stained leather. 

He grimaces lightly. It’ll be a bitch to clean later. 

He lets Shiro hold his hand carefully as they make their way back towards their bedroom, lets him manhandle Keith until he’s perched on the edge of the bed, their first aid box opened on the small table and Shiro kneeling in front of him between his legs. 

Slowly, he starts to peel the wraps on Keith’s hands, taking his time in an effort to be as gentle as possible. He makes small noises in sympathy at every flinch, and every hiss Keith can’t keep quiet, coming down from the adrenaline fuelled state of mind that had kept the various aches and pains at bay. 

When Shiro starts pulling out the disinfectant Keith stops him with an uncertain noise. “I feel like I should have a shower before you finish patching me up.” Sweat is cooling on his skin, enough to make him shiver. 

“Might be a good idea,” Shiro agrees. “The warm water might help you relax enough to sleep as well.”

Keith hums, uncertain. He wishes that were true but he still doesn’t feel exhausted enough to sleep. 

Keith ducks away into their small bathroom, strips, and then turns the shower on as hot as he can stand it. The room fills with steam quickly and he lets it run over his shoulders and back, soaking his hair. It feels good, warming his hands and his toes; he hadn’t even realised he was cold enough for them to go numb until he was assaulted by the uncomfortable prickling feeling of the heat thawing him out. 

The sound of the water is nice, like white noise but softer. It’s not enough to block out the sound of the door swishing open, but even if it had the there-and-gone-again cold draft would have tipped him off. 

Reluctantly, Keith turns off the water and wrings out his hair as best he can, hands stinging as he flexes his hands and the skin moves. 

When he steps out of the shower, Shiro is standing there, waiting with the largest and fluffiest towel they have. He lets Shiro wrap him up and pat him dry, lets him pick him up and sit him on the counter top, breaking away just long enough to grab one of their smaller towels to help with his hair. 

“So...do you want to talk about it?” Shiro asks, calmly, as steady as his hands. 

It’s a genuine question too. If Keith decided he didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t have to and Shiro wouldn’t force the issue, and it was that very fact that had Keith’s spine relaxing out of the rigid line he’s unknowingly been holding himself in. 

“Brain’s too loud to sleep,” Keith admits with a self deprecating smile. “Feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.”

Shiro frowns as he finger combs Keith’s hair. “So you got up to work off the energy?” At his nod Shiro asks, “Did it work?” 

Keith huffs. “For a little bit maybe? Still doesn’t feel like I could sleep though.” 

Saying that feels oddly like admitting to failure and it must show on his face because Shiro makes a soft sound, lets the towel in his hand drop to the floor and draws Keith closer. Keith welcomes him into the cradle of his thighs and wraps his arms around his broad shoulders, breathing in deep and releasing it slowly. 

“You could have woken me up,” Shiro says quietly, pressing a light kiss to the twisting scar on Keith’s shoulder. 

“And then both of us will be tired tomorrow, instead of just me.” Keith snorts. “Though I suppose that's happening anyway,” he adds wryly. He lets his forehead thunk against Shiro’s broad shoulder and says quietly, “Sorry for keeping you up.” 

Shiro pulls way and Keith can’t help the way he sways forward, chasing his warmth. Shiro’s hands come up to frame his face, thumbs brushing lightly against the dark bruises under Keith eyes, over the sweep of his cheek. “You don’t need to apologise for that, Keith. I’d rather be awake with you than having you be up by yourself and miserable.”

Shiro gently brushes some hair out of Keith's face before his lips twist, mischief lighting his eyes and he tweaks the end of his nose with a cheeky grin. Keith sneezes and Shiro laughs, bright and loving, as Keith rubs at his nose.

Shiro’s laughter tails off when he sees Keith’s hand again and he tugs the large towel more firmly around Keith. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and Keith watches as he ducks off back into the bedroom. 

Under the harsher light of the bathroom his hands do look worse, Keith admits to himself. His knuckles were still raw and bloody, the water from the shower having softened the congealed blood and reopened the cuts slightly. Distantly he hopes that he hasn’t gotten blood over the towels. The bruises painting his skin look particularly lurid against the paleness of his skin and Keith knows that if he were fully human then his hands would probably be swollen and stiff as well.

When the door opens again and Shiro steps back inside he’s carrying a pair of boxers and the jumper in one hand and the first aid box in the other. 

Keith lets Shiro help him down off the counter, lets him help him into the boxers, one leg at a time while Keith tugs the jumper back over his head, and then lets him fuss over his hands to his hearts content. When everything’s done, his hands taped with just the right amount of tension and perfect lines, Shiro ducks down to press his lips against Keith’s knuckles. 

“Do you think you can lie down for a bit while I clean up?” he questions after a moments pause. 

Translation; do you think you can stand being still or do you need to move?

“Yeah,” Keith says quietly. “Yeah, I can lie down for a bit.” He misses the warmth of their bed anyway and the heat of the shower is slowly wearing off as the ships chill works its way back into him.

They seperate, reluctant like they always are, and Keith slides under the blankets with a sigh that’s part relief and part frustration. It feels good to let his arms lay limp for a minute but already he knows he’s still too wired to sleep. 

He turns enough to watch Shiro’s silhouette move about in the light of the bathroom. He can hear the crinkle of wrappings, the snap of the lid of the first aid box and then Shiro is ducking out of the bathroom and then out of the bedroom, the box in one hand and the towel in the other. Keith frowns. He must have gotten blood on it after all.

Soon enough Shiro is slipping back into their room and into their bed and it feels like earlier except Keith aches more. 

“Still too awake?” Shiro questions softly. 

“Yeah,” Keith says on a sigh. The oppressive press of the outside quintessence was less than before but despite that, Keith could feel the way his brain turned over, too alert by far to allow for sleep. 

“I’m guessing if the shower didn’t help then hot chocolate probably wouldn't either.”

Keith chuckles. “Probably not, no.” Which was a shame really. While he wouldn’t trust Shiro to cook unsupervised he made an almost supernaturally good hot chocolate.

The silence stretches and Keith can feel the urge to move grow but his desire to stay like this with Shiro, warm and happy and safe, is enough to keep him from slipping away again. 

One of Shiro’s hands—large, always so large—tucks itself under his stolen jumper and sweeps down his side to the jut of his hip and then back up to the swell of his ribcage. It’s not enough to lull him to sleep but it feels good, almost meditative. Up, down and back again. Shiro pulls him closer by his waist until he’s tucked into the curve of his body and then Keith feels lips against his skin, roughly where Keith knows he has three particularly obvious freckles. 

It’s pointed, the kiss. Soft in the way that Shiro often is with him but weighty with intent. 

Interest stirs in Keith’s belly. 

“Shiro?” His own voice is rough, gravelly with lack of sleep and the first smouldering coals of desire. 

Shiro’s hand sweeps down, down, down, past his hip and the fabric of his boxers, where it wanders towards the soft skin of his inner thigh. Calloused fingers dance over sensitive skin before gripping hard. 

Keith goes lightheaded at the feeling—Shiro’s hand spans so much of his thigh and it's warm like a brand against his skin. He grips and tugs until Keith’s legs part enough for Shiro to slide a knee between them, pressing up and giving Keith something solid to bear down against. 

_“Shiro.”_

“Lemmie make you feel good, baby,” comes the rumble from behind him and this time the kiss to his shoulder comes with a flash of teeth. Keith’s breath catches. “Lemmie wear you out,” he continues as if he has to convince Keith, as if Keith wouldn’t let Shiro do whatever he wanted to him—take whatever he wanted. 

His back pressed to Shiro’s front, he feels dwarfed; small in a way he rarely feels. It’s a good feeling, heady and sweet, and the purr that rumbles out of him at the sensation of Shiro rutting against his ass is welcome and delighted. 

It’s easy, letting Shiro guide the rocking of his hips with his hand while the other tucks its way under him to press flat against his chest, right against his heart. Keith lets his eyes fall shut as he luxuriates in the waves of sensation, as Shiro smooths the edges of the jagged ball of energy inside him into something softer and warmer. 

There’s a minute of discontent when they seperate just long enough to strip the meagre bits of clothing from each other and then its skin to skin and the sound Keith makes is inhuman. Shiro shushes him gently, kissing a line down his neck, nipping at the skin just behind his ear. 

He follows eagerly when Shiro urges him up onto hands and knees and he hears the distant sound of one of their drawers opening and closing. 

Keith spreads his legs at Shiro’s urging, and tries to relax into the feeling of fingers cool and slick, slipping inside. 

It takes a while. Keith is keyed up and tense with it after days of the planet itself chipping away at carefully constructed calm, of the planet’s diplomats um-ing and aw-ing at every little thing with no sympathy to be found anywhere but in Shiro’s arms. 

He doesn't need it from them, doesn't even know if he wants it from them but on some level it grates at him in a way that's dug under his skin. 

“Easy,” Shiro tries to soothe him, and with Shiro’s hands on him and in him—his bulk at his back and his voice in his ear—it’s easy for Keith to take a deep breath and finally relax into the press. 

It might hurt later on but the longer Shiro spends opening him up the more desperate Keith becomes for it. He aches for it—the way Shiro presses questions against his shoulder blades in between the press of lips, asking Keith what he needs—always so eager to please Keith, so desperate to make him feel good in a way that no one else ever has. 

The planet outside the metal of their ship might not care for Keith but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is the man carefully taking him apart, touching him like it's the only thing he ever wants to do.

This is the best thing he has—this thing he never thought he’d get but was somehow given all the same. A lifetime with the best man he knows and Keith’s eyes prick with tears at the thought, breathless and trembling. Keith hangs his head, blinking hard and just breathes.

“Baby?” 

“Shiro.” Keith says, just to say his name. He feels overfull somehow, like he wasn’t built to contain all the things that Shiro—his _husband_—makes him feel. _“Shiro._"

“I’m here,” Shiro says, sounding breathless. “Baby, baby—” he chants, _“Keith._ What do you need, tell me what you need.” 

Shiro’s fingers are large and still in him and as Keith shifts back he feel the length of him against his thigh and he wants.

“In me,” Keith says, unsure if he’s begging or demanding. “In me, pleas—Shiro, Shiro—_puppy, please._”

Shiro groans, loud and just as desperate as Keith feels. Hands come to grip at his hips and there’s the thick press of him—wet and dripping and god—and then he’s pressing inside. Keith’s breath shudders out of him, hips thrusting back on instinct. Small sounds escape him and whereas once he would have tried to stifle them, now he lets them out, a reward and plea all at once. 

When Shiro’s hips finally meet the plush of his ass, Keith has been reduced to quiet pants. Shiro is so big and Keith is small and the reality of it always takes him by surprise when they’re not joined like this. 

"_Fuck,_” Shiro hisses against his back and Keith would laugh if he had the air left to do it. 

They stay like that for a little bit, Shiro buried to the hilt. It’s not to let Keith adjust so much as it’s just to savour the feeling and Keith is grateful for it. He wants this moment to last—always does, whether it’s like this or him pressing his way into Shiro—it feels like being complete. 

Eventually Shiro pulls back—slowly, almost testing—and thrusts back in. The drag sends sparks up his spine and Keith begs for it sweetly even though he never needs to beg for anything. Shiro builds up a rhythm against him, the mattress rocking under them with their movements. Whatever pain or ache that had been there was gone now, completely consumed by how good Shiro was making him feel—it’s enough to make his eyes well up again from feeling so good after days of feeling awful. 

Each thrust punches little noises out of him but over that he can hear the way Shiro pants, the sounds he makes—every once in a while there are snatches of something that might be Keith’s name and it makes heat pool between his hips and his cock twitch where it hangs untouched. The ache in his arms is building—too much time on the punching back coming back to bite him but its secondary to everything else that's happening. 

“Good?” Shiro asks breathlessly.

“Yes,” Keith rasps. “_Yes._” It’s always good when it’s Shiro. 

He must say that out loud because Shiro makes a sound behind him, a small tiny thing that Keith recognises as tinged with surprise—as if he’s somehow shocked that’s what Keith thinks. 

Keith resolves to tell him more often. Shiro should know how good he is, how good he _always_ is to Keith.

It’s easy to get lost in the push and pull of their bodies, as Shiro winds him higher and higher. His brain is fuzzing at the edges and he puts his plan to sings Shiro’s praises on the back-burner, instead letting out the soft, sweet little panting noises that he knows drive Shiro insane—if he can’t find the words amongst the swell of pleasure then he’ll let the pleasure itself speak for him.

His hair is falling in a haphazard curtain over one shoulder, a silken black waterfall that sways with every rock of his body. A small part of him wishes Shiro would fist his hand in it and tug a little or a lot but that can be something else for a different day and a different time.

It's unbelievable how quickly his arms give out—the shaking, aching limbs unable to support him any longer—and he slumps down onto his forearms. Shiro merely shifts his own knees wider, plants a forearm beside Keith's head and follows him down, moulding his chest to the curve of Keiths back, hips working furiously. 

“I got you,” Shiro promises around a grunt. “I gotcha, baby.” His breath runs hot over the flushed skin of Keiths neck and shoulders and Keith believes him like he’s believed very little else in his life. 

After a while he has to turn his face to the side in order to breathe, Shiro’s thrusts forcing his breath out almost before he has time to catch it. It's good, it's so good and he tells Shiro that, this time managing to get the words out, happily sacrificing his hard won air for the cause. 

“‘t’s good, Shiro, you’re s-so good,” he gasps and he doesn’t miss the way Shiro’s hips stutter against his. Keith’s hands clench in the sheets as Shiro’s next thrust forces a cry from his throat. 

It's deep, so deep and god Shiro is just so _big._ His hand is the only thing keeping Keith's hips up and Keith feels dizzy whenever he thinks about how far just one wraps around him. There’ll be bruises and later on he’ll trace them and marvel at how much bigger they are than his own hands, the sheer span of the fingers when compared to his, but for now simply feeling them digging into him is enough to make his head spin. 

“Keith,” Shiro breathes his name. “Keith, baby—_fuck,_ you feel so good.” 

Keith keens lightly, hands scrabbling at the sheets for a second, a different flavour of pleasure sparking through him at the words. Something like pride flushes through him, knowing that he’s marking Shiro feel good too—knowing that he’s the only one that gets to make Shiro feel like this. 

“Perfect,” Shiro mouths into the skin of his neck. “_You’re so perfect._”

Slightly sharpened teeth bite at the nape of his neck, and something in Keith thrills at the feel. This close and he can hear the soft grunts and moans being pressed into his skin, can feel the gasping breath ghosting across his neck. 

The coil of heat in his gut tightens at that. 

He’s covered, completely covered by Shiro’s bulk and the sounds are Keith's version of heaven. 

He loves nothing more than reducing Shiro to wordless animalistic pleasure, loves being the cause of it. It's why he understands Shiro’s desire to hear Keith’s own noises, why he can understand the effort Shiro went into to finding out the best ways to draw them from him back when it was harder to draw noise from him than it was to draw blood from a stone. 

It’s a triumph, knowing that the pleasure you’re bringing is enough to break down barriers long upheld and both of them are nothing but competitive. 

“Good boy,” Keith whispers on a breath. 

Shiro fucks in harder and Keith unclenches a hand from where he’d been fisting the sheets to reach back blindly. It takes longer than he wants with the awkward angle but finally he threads his fingers through Shiro’s starlight hair and tugs harshly until Shiro’s teeth unlatch from the back of his neck. 

He twists and leads Shiro until, finally finally _finally,_ he’s close enough to kiss. 

It’s shockingly soft for this moment; the barest press of lips, more a sharing of breath than anything else. It's perfect, despite the bad angle, it's _everything_ and Shiro’s hips slow to a deep grind as Keith lets his grip soften. He runs his fingers through white hair and feels a soft kiss pressed into the cut of his jaw and he grins. 

“Good boy,” he says into the thick air between them, “You’re so good to me Shiro.”

There’s a sharp breath from somewhere behind him and the next thrust comes in hard. 

“You treat me so well,” Keith moans into the next thrust. “So sweet.” Another hard thrust and Keith swears when he feels Shiro’s heavy cock twitch where it’s buried in him. 

“Come on,” he hisses. “Come on, please puppy, be good.” 

There's something that might be a whimper from behind him. 

“Fuck me good, puppy,” he pleads and like that Shiro’s control seems to snap as his hips begin to hump into him frantically. 

“A-ah! G-good boy, _good b-boy good boy!_” 

Shiro’s moans grow in pitch, and his hips snap harder and harder and its not long before Keith can feel his rhythm beginning to stutter. 

Keith can't stop the shiver that ran up his spine. “Come in me,” he gasps. He can feel himself dripping where he’s hanging hot and heavy but he doesn't bother trying to reach down and touch himself. He doesn't need it, he just needs Shiro. 

“C-come in me, S-shiro _please._” He’s shameless in his begging because its Shiro and this is good, it can only ever be good. 

He thinks he feels a shaking nod against his shoulder and barely a minute later Shiro’s hips stutter. The remaining hand on his hip unclenches for the first time since it made its home there, and then two forearms are wrapping their way tight around his waist, one flesh and one metal and both unyielding. 

The shift forces Keith to take the weight of both of them.

Shiro moans like it's being dragged from him, a rough desperate sounding thing. One, two, three thrusts and then he buries himself inside Keith, as deep as he can get. 

Keith feels Shiro’s cock twitch inside him and the liquid heat that follows and the tight coil in his gut finally snaps. 

He buries his face in the bedding beneath him and keens as he comes hard enough to white out his vision. He clenches down hard on Shiro’s cock and distantly he thinks he hears Shiro groan. His claws cut through the sheets and his fangs nick his bottom lip as he shudders through wave after wave and Shiro holds him tight throughout, rocking his hips into Keith gently, panting as he does. 

When he comes too, his eyelashes are clumped together with tears. He can feel Shiro pressing mindless kisses over his shoulder before nosing up his neck to press them against his jaw. His weight is a heavy press against Keith, just how he knows Keith likes it. 

Keith moans softly as Shiro moves to reach his lips, shifting where they’re still connected. He hadn’t pulled out and Keith rocks back slightly, feeling the weight of his softening cock still inside. 

He feels wet and used and full and he trills in soft delight when he feels Shiro’s cock give a valiant twitch even as Shiro presses him down harder with a tortured groan, trapping Keith underneath him and stopping him from moving. 

Keith lets him, purring in happiness as Shiro settles. 

The heat of him and the weight of him is enough to make Keith feel drowsy in the aftermath but its the soft whisper into the crook of his neck that has the last tension draining from him—mind clear for the first time in days. 

Keith blindly feels down his side and grasps one of Shiro’s hands, bringing it back up to his lips to press a kiss against his knuckles. 

“love you too,” he slurs before finally letting sleep take him.

**Author's Note:**

> Im on twitter, come talk to me about sheith


End file.
